My Dead Husband Married Another Woman

birthday, I visited that cliff's edge, placing white lilies and mourning a ghost. Until today, when a single photo on Instagram sha

tically visiting Bixby Creek Bridge on my birthday

party photo. The caption announced his sixth wedding anniversary with Ivory Woodwa

victim, manipulating him to shove me, leaving me bleeding. He forced a public apology, took our hom

ed her heart donor withdrew. My mother's last hope was stolen. Stripped of everything,

truth, linking to the proof, declaring, "Let the world be the judge." As it went live, I drove ba

pte

el

white lilies sat o

eral. I stared through the windshield at the Bixby Creek Bri

ye

since Chace Woodward

y since I became a

my thirtie

weathered wood of the older sections. A scar like the

hine that always came back here. An alarm that h

cold, tightened on

ear on this day, I would open Instagram, navigate to his

fore he left to get the birthday cake. Before the call from th

fo

croll. Anything to loosen the knot in my chest, to delay the mo

den retriever. A

rty. Fairy lights twinkled over a sea of champagne glasses and designer dresses. The

umb f

as laughing, raising a glass. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his hair curled just behi

lt like plunging into the cold Pacific waters below t

uldn'

had seen his face in crowds a hundred times in six years. The the

nger clumsy as I tried to zoom in. The image

face came

n't a

Chace W

es around his eyes I didn't recognize, a dusting of grey at his temples. But it was him. The same mou

stak

g praise for the floral arrangements and the string of

brating @ChaceWoodward & @Ivo

dn't make sense. I read them three times, e

rs. Ann

numb fingers, clattering a

pillow. Six years of lighting candles on his birthday and talking to a ghost. Six years of wearing bl

brating a weddi

Wood

ng white gown, beaming up at Chace with the kind of radiant joy that can't be fake

hus

smile. Another photo showed a younger girl, maybe four years old, g

chil

ir

years. Six years of birthday parties and vacations and lazy Sunday morni

I had insisted he fire after an invoicing error that almost cost the company a major client. She had

something hot and corrosive started to burn. A rage so pure and complete it made my vision narrow t

location tag.

ine roared to life. I threw the car into drive, tires squea

re left to wilt on

a combination of the location tag and sheer, desperate instinct-a massive walled

and

g through the gates. The security guard was st

ning, and sprinted past the bewildered guard. He shouted, but I was already t

ss wealth-champagne towers and ice sculptures, women in gowns that cost more than my car, men in suits tailored within an inch

en I s

acy. She was in a shimmering white dress that probably cost more than my rent for a year. She looked ra

le of friends, all laughing at

g the beau

a ship in rough seas. The party faded to a dull roar at the edges of my perception, replac

few feet in

e easy and relaxed as he

mile

I saw the sequence play across his face: shock, d

kable and gut-wre

ved. A bill he had already paid. A mess so

ituation in real time, calculating. Her hand tightened on Chace's arm-a small, possessive gesture. A tiny, triump

rasp, scraped raw. A sound I

ved possible. His face hardened into something cold

uldn't b

eir perfect party. I saw a familiar face in the crowd-Cole Sterling, Chace's best friend since college, the best

He had probably helped plan the

clear purpose. My hand shook as I raised my phone. The screen showed a screenshot of his online obituar

e. He took a half-step forward

ng the phone against m

t loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "Honey, I told you she was

tab

lit match dropp

ed. You stood in my kitchen and cried, and I made you tea, and then

oment, I saw something cold and reptilian beneath the sur

r voice trembling artfully. "Chace and I have been tog

air. "Yeah, they had to keep it quiet because of his family's trust fund rules. The wh

by a drunk strange

Not a tragic accident.

ne item on a spreadsheet, erased with a fake obitua

orld tilt on its axis. My eyes landed on a nearby table.

. My body moved before my mind cou

otion, I flung

mys

s. The heavy base of the wine glass grazed my cheek on the follow-t

rowd

e roared. He lunged for

neven lawn. I fell to the ground, the impact j

cradling her face in his hands with a tenderness that

wine-stained cheeks. The wine that I had thrown at mysel

shoulder, her

t down to rest protectively on her flat stomach. A gesture s

er voice a poisonous whisper that somehow carr